


just add water!

by akingdomofunicorns



Series: mermaids of the deep blue sea [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: But I'm giving it to you anyway, F/F, F/M, Multi, Warning: Adult Language, as in: dirty thoughts and comments and such, as in: sexual, enjoy?!, i was supposed to post this during mermau week 2 but life got in the way, not sure i got it right but oh well... i had to get this outta my system, the h2o: just add water au literally NO ONE asked for, the prompt was: urban fantasy/magical realism/magical people
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-31
Updated: 2019-05-31
Packaged: 2020-03-30 01:08:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19031632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akingdomofunicorns/pseuds/akingdomofunicorns
Summary: Arya is the first to jump into the lagoon, her pale skin shining silver under the full moon. The wild Stark girl has no shame in her nakedness, and it is all the encouragement Myrcella needs to shimmy out of her bikini and take Sansa’s hand. She drags the older girl into the warm water, humming as they swim deeper and deeper into the center of the pool. Overhead, the empty volcano, an old carcass of stone, opens into the sky like a telescope pointing towards the blue moon.(The H2O: Just Add Water! AU no one asked for. The one where Myrcella, Arya, and Sansa turn into mermaids when they come into contact with water)





	just add water!

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be 3k max, but as you can see... I lost control over it. This was not betaed, and I was in a hurry to post it before the end of mermay, so yeah, all mistakes are my own, I apologize. Anyway, please enjoy this mess of a crack AU :D

**I: the volcano**

Arya is the first to jump into the lagoon, her pale skin shining silver under the full moon. The wild Stark girl has no shame in her nakedness, and it is all the encouragement Myrcella needs to shimmy out of her bikini and take Sansa’s hand. She drags the older girl into the warm water, humming as they swim deeper and deeper into the center of the pool. Overhead, the empty volcano, an old carcass of stone, opens into the sky like a telescope pointing towards the blue moon.

“It’s not Winterfell,” Arya drawls, her thick northern accent still heavy despite her years in the South, “but I suppose Storm’s End’s got its own kind of beauty.”

Myrcella agrees. Not out of loyalty towards her father’s lands, but because she’s loved the stormy waters since she was but a wisp of a girl, all golden curls and crooked teeth. The volcano, however, is like no other place in the Stormlands. The water that surrounds the island and seeps into its crevices is a clear blue unseen in the rest of the Stormlands, so clean and bright that it reflects the moonlight and it lights the cave from within, from wall to wall. This is her cave, where her mother used to take her when she was little, where she learned how to swim, away from Joff’s cruel comments, just her and Cersei splashing about in the precious moments they could share alone, mother to daughter.

Myrcella dunks her head underwater, content with the water applying pressure in her ears. They leave tomorrow for Oldtown, back to Uni and their responsibilities. With spring break over, skinny-dipping in the depths of an ancient volcano under a blue moon seems like the only appropriate way of saying farewell to their short-lived vacation.

When Myrcella comes back up for air, Arya is trying to catch Sansa, but they are both mediocre swimmers, used to Winterfell’s indoor pools and Oldtown’s calm beaches. Sansa slips passed Arya’s grasp and Myrcella kicks her feet against the sand, dashing towards the older sister. She is a far better swimmer than these Starks.

* * *

Storm’s End hasn’t got an airport, the weather won’t allow it, so they take turns driving Myrcella’s ridiculously big cruiser cross country, east to west, and they make it back in a day and a half. Arya feels like she deserves a pat on the back, for she did most of the driving, mind you, but the girls only bid her goodnight before crashing on their own beds. She watches them disappear into their rooms, but she feels far too filthy to go straight to bed. Instead, she goes into their shared bathroom —and yes, three girls sharing a bathroom is as terrible as it sounds— and takes off all her clothes, wishing for the thousandth time she was back in that cave.

She’s contemplating whether or not she should start the assignment due in two days that she’s been neglecting all the holidays when the warm water hits her square in the chest. She feels much better, and she dips her head back so the water can run down her neck in a straight line. She counts to ten, bidding her limbs to relax. _One, two, three_. She turns so the water hits her back and the tension of her neck immediately lets out a little. _Four, five, six_. If she feels refreshed after the shower, she’ll get some work done, she promises. _Seven, eight, nine_. It truly feels like heaven.

 _Ten_.

It’s ridiculous, really, how it happens. One moment she’s standing, counting to ten and feeling completely relaxed, just like her yoga instructor taught her; the other she’s sitting on her bum on the floor of the tub and her legs are _gone_. Truly, completely gone. Not there. Nothing. _Nada_. Well… not _nada_. There is a fishtail where her legs should be. A silver tail. She looks like a goddamn big tuna fish.

She doesn’t feel refreshed at all. A nap, that’s what she needs.

* * *

“Girls,” Sansa feels the words get stuck on her throat, but she forces them out anyways, “I never thought I’d be saying this but… we’re mermaids.”

“Fucking dumb is what we are,” Arya groans, tugging at the hem of her shorts. “Let’s go swimming in some ancient dormant volcano, we said, it’ll be fun, we said.”

“The volcano is empty! It’s just a shell!” Myrcella huffs, and Sansa knows the poor girl thinks this is all her fault. It was her idea, after all, and her family’s lands, and her family’s castle, and her family’s volcano in her family’s uninhabited island.

“In retrospect, we should’ve questioned the fact that your family owns a volcano. In fact, what the hell is an empty volcano anyway?”

The situation is getting out of hand. It’s not that Arya isn’t making any sense (in fact, Sansa would never admit it, but her younger sister does make a fair point: who the hell owns a volcano? And why did they think it was a good idea to go swimming in one of its pools?), but they need to sort this situation out before they dive deep into a collective panic attack.

“We can’t let _anyone_ know. Not even our parents,” she says, hoping she doesn’t sound as anxious as she feels. The girls count on her to be the collected one of the group.

“But—”

“You’re not an idiot, Cella, you know what would happen if anyone were to find out. And I don’t think you want to end up dissected in a lab, do you?”

“Fine,” she grumbles, blowing a strand of hair away from her face.

It is decided, then, that they will keep the secret.

* * *

**II: three can’t keep a secret**

Of course Margaery Tyrell invites them to a pool party. Of-fucking-course. It’s no secret that the Tyrell girl is _the_ it girl in Oldtown and, to their absolute tragedy, Sansa’s kind-of-girlfriend. They can’t bloody well not attend her party, at least not the three of them at the same time, so they grit their teeth and don long jeans in the hopes that not a single drop of water hits their skin. Myrcella thinks the plan is dumb, but it is her plan after all, and it is the only one they’ve got, so she keeps her mouth shut as they make their way to Marg’s mansion.

“Remember the plan,” Sansa says anxiously, “we gotta—”

“Stick together, yeah,” Arya interrupts, pushing the gate to Marg’s house open, “but I plan on getting shitfaced tonight. I need to wash the stink of fish from my memory.”

They don’t stink of fish at all, Myrcella wants to remind her, but Arya won’t have none of that. She’s taking it quite hard. They all are. They can’t even shower anymore because, apparently, mermaids cannot stand at all, so they need to take baths. Every. Single. Day. She’s dreading the bill on that.

But well, a party is a party, so she’ll let Arya have her fun as long as she stays away from the pool. And the Jacuzzi. And the ice statue of a swan inside a rose that so elegantly graces the Tyrell’s backyard.

“You like it?” Margaery asks, appearing out of nowhere to hand her a cup of gin and lime.

“It’s… nice.”

“I had it commissioned for today. I thought it would be so pretty.”

“It is,” Sansa assures her, coming to stand beside her… thing. Marg gets on her tiptoes and kisses Sansa’s cheek. It is very polite of them not to suck face in front of her, Myrcella thinks; it wouldn’t be the first time, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last, either.

Sansa takes a sip from Marg’s champagne flute and snakes her hand around the older girl’s waist. With Arya gone, it takes Sansa about fifteen seconds to succumb to Margaery’s doe eyes, and the plan falls apart like sandcastles in the wind. Myrcella looks at her gin and downs it all in one swig.

* * *

Arya needs to pee, like, right now. She’s drunk as a lord, which is fine by her since that was her goal, but she always forgets how small her bladder is compared to her stubbornness. Pigheaded, Sansa would call her, but Sansa’s not here. Her dear, lovely sister is too busy staring down Margaery’s décolletage to care about Arya’s clumsy steps.

She tries to find Myrcella in the crowd. It is possible, perhaps, that she will need assistance to get out of her jeans to do her business. It wouldn’t be the first time. But Myrcella is nowhere to be found, and Arya really needs to pee. All the bathrooms are occupied, of course, and even though Marg’s house is big, it isn’t _that_ big. This is not Highgarden, after all, only a house the Tyrell’s bought in the city so their children wouldn’t have to live in the dorms. Fucking posh, she thinks, too drunk to remember she is just as posh as the rest of them.

But in her drunken haze, she does remember that Margaery’s suite has its own bathroom. And so do her brothers’. She makes her way upstairs, and upstairs, and upstairs. Surely three floors are enough for four young adults, two of which don’t even live there anymore? She chooses Willas’ empty room. The bed is made, though, even if the shelves are empty. She can’t really remember Marg’s older brother, but she hopes he’ll forgive her if she uses his bathroom. She’ll just have to be very careful not to puke on the carpet.

After she’s done, she washes her hands and her face, feeling a bit more sober but far too dizzy still. She could really use a nap. The bathtub is big enough for three people, and no one will miss her too much if she just lays there for a couple of hours. She takes off her shoes and her socks and climbs inside, getting comfortable. The surface is hard, but the cold sits well with her. It is just a little nap, she’ll be fine.

* * *

“I saw something weird on the beach the other day,” Marg slurs, her pretty pink lips stumbling over the words. Usually, she can hold her alcohol better, but Sansa’s pretty sure this must be Margaery’s seventh glass of champagne.

“Topless girls?” Sansa says, and giggles.

Marg always manages to turn her into a silly mess. It’s the doe eyes that make her go all gooey inside. And the cleavage, too, but that is so not the point.

Marg shakes her head as she whispers, “You’re gonna think I’m nuts.”

Sansa gets a little closer, “Go on,” she says, letting her lips brush against the shell of her ear. Marg shudders under her mouth and Sansa feels like the winner in an unofficial match. It is usually Marg the one with the upper hand; it feels good to know she can have as much power over her.

Marg leans backward, her eyes dark with desire, and Sansa thinks for a moment that she’ll ignore her question in favor of getting frisky. But Marg is nothing if not focused, so she clears her throat and answers, almost shyly, “Well, I was on my family’s boat and I think I saw… Well, I _know_ I didn’t actually see a mermaid, but I did see the strangest sea creature ever. It almost looked like an actual mermaid.”

Sansa chokes on her own saliva and hopes Margaery interprets it as something other than what it really is. This, she knows, is all Arya’s fault. Arya is the only one of the three who has tried swimming in the sea, instead of staying safe and cozy in the bathtub. But, of course, she cannot tell Margaery that. She promised silence, and silence is what the older girl will get.

“Isn’t it weird?” Marg asks, and Sansa is forced to nod. “Do you think I should investigate it?”

Sansa knows that saying no will offend Marg, so she shrugs in what she hopes is a casual, not suspicious manner. “If you’ve got nothing better to do,” she says, in her most non-committal voice.

She wants to tell Margaery so frickin’ bad. It’s a shame it was her idea to keep it hush, because she really, really wants to tell her. Not only because Marg is super smart and would definitely know what to do, but because, well, she likes her. _Like_ likes her.

She can’t tell her, though, because she promised, so she pushes her against the mattress and sticks her tongue in her mouth in hopes that this will distract her from the fact that she is a lesbian mermaid and she’s not allowed to tell her soon-to-be-girlfriend.

* * *

**III: if two of them are drunk**

She’s got her tongue down Robb Stark’s throat before she even finishes her second cup of gin and lime. She’s a terrible drunk: the horny kind, and she’s had a hard-on for the Stark boy since forever. It’s not that she actually thought she’d end up kissing him at a party (she’s fantasized about it, of course, but her dreams had seemed as realistic then as… well… turning into a mermaid, she supposes), but she’d seen him crossing the room searching for his sisters and, well, he’d looked delicious.

Getting him to feel her up against a wall had been improvised, and she’s not sure how she managed to do that. One second she’d been telling him about her skinny-dipping adventure (without the magical part, Arya and Sansa would kill her if she ever broke a pinky-promise), the next they were sucking face against a flower-patterned wallpaper.

“I’ve been meaning to do this for ages now,” Robb says against her lips, and Myrcella hums, although her knee-jerk reaction is to get down on her knees and show him exactly what she’s been meaning to do for ages now. But public sex is definitely not her kink, so she keeps it mostly in her pants. She does tug at his hair, though, because he seems like the kind to enjoy a little rough play. He rewards her with a low moan that shakes her to her core, and she’s a second away from pulling him upstairs to one of the many spare bedrooms when someone pulls her away from the Holy Grail.

Her half-brother clears his throat, embarrassed, and this is certainly the worst thing that’s ever happened to her and she’s about to say so, but Gendry beats her to it, “I’m sorry, really, but I need to talk to you right now. It’s important, promise. Sorry, man,” he adds towards Robb, who looks half worried Gendry will break his nose for getting it on with his little sister, “I’ll try to be quick and bring her back in a bit.”

And, with that, Gendry hauls her outside into the hallway.

“I will murder you in your sleep,” she growls, very aware of how much she sounds like Arya at that moment, “I’ve been waiting to make out with him ever since I was twelve. This is my _dream_.”

 “Can’t find Arya,” he grumbles, “and Eleanor Tarly said she was… well, she was in bad shape. Didn’t want to get her in trouble with her brother, though.”

Myrcella sighs. Robb’s hot and nice and loyal and all kinds of amazing, but she’s known him long enough to remember just how overprotective he can be: if he finds out Arya’s close to passing out, he’ll make his sister’s life a living hell.

“Well, let’s go find her.”

* * *

The splash of water wakes her immediately. Her breath hitches in her throat and she looks around wildly, until her eyes land on Gendry pointing the shower head at her. It is freezing cold.

“Seven hells, Arya,” he says, throwing the shower head aside and getting inside the tub with her, “you scared me half to death. Myrcella!”

She is not disoriented enough to forget she’s only got a few seconds before she turns into a fish. Stupid Gendry would make her life difficult like that.

 “Go away, stupid!”

But Gendry isn’t listening to her. He cradles her face between his enormous hands and shakes her gently.

“Are you ok?”

Arya tries to push him away, but he’s strong.

“Here, I’ll help you out,” he says, climbing out of the tub. She can feel the shower head still going crazy at her feet, even if they’re not feet at all anymore. Gendry stills when he sees, his mouth hanging open for flies to enter at their pleasure. He looks stupid.

“Seven hells… Myrcella!” he shouts, his booming voice carrying all the way to the other side of the house, she’s sure, “Myrcella!”

Arya lets her head fall back. She’s got a killing headache and she’s still drunk enough that she can’t quite wrap her head around the consequences. But Myrcella will most definitely be able to do so, and she’ll get anal about every little thing she does now. Sansa, too, when she finds out. She should move to another house. Another country, even.

Myrcella comes running but stops at the door when she sees her brother standing there in front of her mermaid friend. Arya only spares them a glance. She would very much like to go back to her nap.

“Oh, fuck,” Myrcella says.

“Oh, fuck?” Gendry asks, incredulously.

Myrcella nods and repeats, “Oh, fuck.”

And Arya laughs.

* * *

 Arya and Myrcella think they’re super sneaky, but Sansa can smell a liar a mile away. She went to boarding school in King’s Landing, for fuck’s sake, and she’s worked as Cersei Lannister’s assistant every summer. Myrcella should really know better than to try and lie to her face. She’s not mad her friend necked her brother, even if she thinks it’s gross (Robb is great, of course, but he’s a fucking tool, _ew_ ).

“Had fun last night?”

Myrcella turns from the chicken breasts she’s seasoning to look at her with something close to suspicion in her gullible eyes.

“Yes, it was alright.”

Sansa’s pretty sure Myrcella’s night was more than alright if the rumors she’s heard are true.

“You know, I heard something very interesting.”

Myrcella hums but doesn’t turn away from her cooking. Sansa rolls her eyes.

“Did you see my brother, by the way? I heard he was there, but I didn’t get to see him,” she tries.

Myrcella tenses, her hands stilling over the food, and Sansa smiles like the cat that ate the cream. Margaery is rubbing off on her, and that girl is a terrible influence.

“I did,” Myrcella finally manages as she puts the chicken in the pan.

Sansa huffs. What an idiot.

“Just say you and my brother made out for a good portion of the night, you coward. I promise you I’m not mad.”

Myrcella turns towards her, startled, her green eyes as big as saucers.

“I was gonna tell you, but I kinda forgot until now. Sorry,” she adds sheepishly.

Sansa frowns.

“How can you forget about it? You weren’t _that_ drunk! And you’ve been thirsting after Robb ever since you were twelve! It’s your _dream_.”

Myrcella has the grace to look embarrassed at that. As she should.

“I—”

The doorbell interrupts her.

“I’ll get it,” Sansa sighs, and leaves Myrcella to her cooking. When she opens the door, she finds Myrcella’s handsome brother. Well, half-brother, but handsome nonetheless. She lets him in.

“Myrcella, Gendry’s here,” she shouts, taking him to the kitchen.

She sees Myrcella flinch, but the girl turns with a cautious smile on her face. Weird.

“Hey, Cella. Is Arya home?”

Sansa snorts and says, “She’s upstairs... bedridden. She drank way too much last night.”

“Gendry, I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to—”

But Gendry doesn’t let his sister finish.

“Look, I know what I saw. She had a tail, Cella. She was a mermaid! And she said you guys were mermaids, too. You can’t just say she was in a costume, for fuck’s sake. I saw it with my own eyes! And I wasn’t drunk, you know that. One minute she had legs as fine as any girl, the other she had a silver tail!”

Sansa arches an eyebrow. So not only do they have to worry about Marg going full Dora the Explorer on them, now Gendry knows, too. Fucking hells.

“So I guess you forgot to tell me about that, too?”

Myrcella flushes like a pomegranate and Sansa feels the beginnings of a massive headache take root in her skull. It’s going to be a very long year.

* * *

**IV: the calm and the storm**

She’s in class when she gets the text. Professor Pycelle is super anal about phones because he’s a thousand years old, at least, so Myrcella waits until his bald head is turned towards her to tuck her phone out of her pocket. She’s sure her laptop screen hides her well enough, but you never know with Pycelle, so she’s careful to appear as innocent as a dear as she unlocks the screen.

_Wanna hang out tomorrow? There’s a new Italian restaurant near your place that I’ve been meaning to try —Robb._

Robb texts like an old man, with proper capitals and all. It’s part of his charm, actually, and it makes Myrcella want to tease him mercilessly. Myrcella looks up to check that Pycelle is still scribbling incoherently on the blackboard. But for the Maiden, Robb is asking _her_ on a date. _Her_. Not sweet-faced Roslin, not gentle Jeyne, not fierce and loyal Dacey. Her, stubborn and freckled and loser Myrcella Baratheon. They’ve known each other since she was twelve, she used to follow him around with rosy cheeks and starry eyes and crooked teeth caged in braces dirty with spinach. Seven hells, that was embarrassing.

She would really like to do her silly dance of victory right now, but Pycelle wouldn’t appreciate that. She settles for texting Robb back.

_Sure, 7:30 pm sounds good?_

His response is immediate, _Yes!_

* * *

“Stop staring, stupid!”

Gendry’s been insufferable ever since he found out she’s a mermaid. He won’t stop looking at her and it’s unnerving. And it makes her feel self-conscious, her old insecurities of inadequacy bubbling up to the surface. She can almost hear Jeyne Poole’s neighing to the chants of ‘Arya Horseface, Arya Horseface, Arya Horseface!’

“Sorry,” he mumbles but doesn’t avert his eyes. Arya pushes him off the bed where they sit cross-legged, attempting to find a present for Hot Pie on Gendry’s laptop. Gendry stumbles over the edge and lands on his ass, but he’s not mad. He just laughs it off and climbs back up to sit beside her. She hates him, and his stupid smell, as well. She shouldn’t have gotten him that cologne, it makes her dizzy and it fills her stomach with a feeling she can’t quite name, can’t quite accept. Gendry is her _friend_.

“It’s just weird, is all,” he says and clicks on an apron with a cherry pie pattern to enlarge the picture. It’s very nice, very Hot Pie-ish.

“Am not,” she says, knowing she sounds a bit like a brat.

“Not you, dumbass. But it’s weird to think you’re a mermaid. Can I see again?”

Arya wants to strangle him.

“C’mon,” he insists, “if it were me, you’d ask to see it ten thousand times a day, you know that.”

He is right, of course, but not for the reasons he thinks. It’s not Gendry with a tail she’d want to see… It’s a shirtless Gendry with a mermaid tail, sprawled lazily in a tub with rivulets of water dripping down his chest and his deep blue eyes begging her to sit on his face. _That_ is what she’d want to see. The tail would just be the equivalent of getting free fries with your burger.

She needs to stop thinking about Gendry that way, though. Friends don’t think about their fellow friends naked in the tub.

“Ok, fine, you stupid stubborn bull.”

She gets up and grabs the water bottle on his desk. Ten seconds later she’s sitting on top of a puddle with a tail for legs. Gendry comes to sit beside her.

“Sansa’s tail is turquoise, Myrcella’s coral pink,” she says to distract her from his prodding eyes. “I got a boring grey.”

Gendry sighs.

“It’s silver, you dumbass.”

He brings his hand to her scaly skin, touching her with only his fingertips as if afraid he’ll break her. He would have never dared to touch her skinny human legs, she thinks bitterly.

“And it matches your eyes,” he says under his breath, a faint blush coloring the tips of his ears, and Arya’s pretty sure her heart stops beating for a while.

* * *

“And how do you think this makes me feel, Sansa?” Marg is close to tears and Sansa’s heart feels heavy on her chest. Still, she cannot tell her the truth, Gendry knowing is far too many people knowing.

“I’m not trying to hurt your feelings, Marg. I just think it’s a waste of time, is all,” she says instead, “You need to calm down.” She sounds like a proper asshole, she knows, but what is she supposed to do? If Marg keeps trying to catch the mermaid, she’ll find out. It’s not like Sansa can stop Arya (and now Myrcella, too, gods be good, but neither can stay still for too long, damn them) from diving into the sea whenever she feels like it. Sansa’s not been able to stop Arya from doing anything, ever.

As expected, Marg just glares at her and stalks into the kitchen, her hair following her like a cape. Sansa feels exhausted, but she can’t very well just leave her soon-to-be-girlfriend in the middle of a fight, so she follows her into the kitchen.

“Well, I am perfectly calm, thank you. And I will have you know, Sansa Stark, that you are not as good a liar as you believe yourself to be. I know there is more to it than just that, and I know there is something you’re not telling me. And I know it’s got to do with your sister and Cella. So if you’re going to be rude, at least own up to it.”

Sansa feels her cheeks flush. She’d like to curse her mother for making her so pale that every little embarrassing thing makes her skin heat like a torch. Margaery arches a perfectly sculpted eyebrow at the sight and raises a glass of water to her lips. Sansa feels her blood boil. How dare she call her a liar? She is only protecting herself and her sister and her goddamn childhood friend.

“You’ve got no idea what you’re talking about, Marg,” she says, voice icy cold.

It is not her words that startle Margaery, Sansa knows that because she sees when it happens. The water on her cup freezes into a block and Marg turns her head just slightly to stare at it with wide eyes, white in fear.

“What?”

But Sansa can’t explain it, she doesn’t understand either.

Marg hisses at the cold and lets the cup drop to the ground, where it shatters into a thousand pieces. She flexes her empty hand. Sansa can’t do anything but stay rooted to her place.

“What the hell was that?,” Marg whispers. And then, “Did you see that?”

Sansa nods. She _felt_ that.

* * *

**V: brave girls**

“So what you’re saying is that you can control water?” Myrcella asks, perplexed.

Sansa nods and points her hand towards a glass of water set on the coffee table. It freezes immediately into a block of ice.

“I can only freeze it, nothing else. You two should try it, too.”

Arya is the first one to get it right, as Myrcella knew she would. The younger Stark sister has always been the fastest learner of the three, and it takes her no time at all to learn how to bring the water in her cup into a boil. Myrcella takes a little longer, but she eventually gets the hang of it. She floats little balls of water across the dining room, mesmerized by the fact that each of them got a different power to play with. It is such a cliché, really.

“Sweet,” Arya says, grinning her wolfish smile, “perhaps being a fish won’t be so bad.”

Myrcella doesn’t want to think too much about it, she feels enough like a freak as it is.

Her phone buzzes.

“Well, this was fun, but I gotta go,” she says as she stands up.

“Hot date tonight?” Sansa asks.

“Yeah, Robb is taking me out to dinner.”

“Robb? Our Robb?” Arya asks. With her head cocked to one side she looks like a confused puppy.

“Oh, Arya, sweetling,” Sansa coos, “how can you be so smart and yet so dumb sometimes?”

* * *

With Myrcella gone —on a date with _Robb_ , ew—, Arya is left alone with her sister. Usually, they go about their own way, they share a space and work on their stuff in pleasant silence. Most often they tease each other in good nature, far sweeter than the mocking of when they were children. Sansa hasn’t called her ‘Horseface’ in years, and ever since Arya came to Oldtown, they’ve been friends. True friends. Laid back and almost easy-going, they hang out and eat together and they even party together. Arya’s even discovered she actually likes brunching when it’s just the two of them; sometimes they invite Myrcella, but she doesn’t mind if it’s just them, either. She likes her sister well enough now. And what are sisters for, if not listen to you vent about your stupid crushes?

Arya’s not sure what possesses her to say it, but she does anyway.

“What do you think of Gendry?”

Sansa looks up from her phone with a frown on her face.

“When have you ever cared about what I think?”

She’s right, of course. But alas, she can’t back down now.

“Since two minutes ago. Now answer me.”

“He’s… nice. Handsome. Stubborn.”

“He really is.”

“Why did you ask?”

“Well,” she doesn’t know how to answer, but she keeps going anyways, “I don’t know. I mean… I like him,” she blurts out, and she knows she’s fucked up.

But Sansa only nods, “Yeah, I know.”

“No, you don’t. I _like_ like him,” she repeats, because now that she’s said it out loud she cannot unsay it. And she needs to say it. “I like him as in: I want to date him and call him mine.”

Sansa sighs, “I _know_. Arya, you’re quite obvious, even when you think you’re being sneaky. You’re my sister, I know you.”

Arya feels herself flush from head to toe. Oh.

“Do you think he knows?”

Gods, she hopes he doesn’t and when Sansa shakes her head she almost weeps in relief.

“No, I don’t think he does. He’s as thick-skulled as you are. But he does like you back, you know.”

“He doesn’t,” Arya’s quick to argue, “he likes me now because I’ve got myself a magic tail. But he doesn’t like me. How could he? I’m still very much horse-faced, you know.”

Sansa has the grace to blush, but she gets that stubborn look on her that means she’s ready for an argument. They don’t look anything alike, but their mother always said they had the same look on them when they were getting ready for a fight. Arya steals her jaw, Sansa’s not an easy opponent.

“I shouldn’t have called you that,” Sansa says instead, surprising Arya into stunned silence. They have never talked about it. “I’m sorry, Arya. I really am. You do not look like a horse, though. And you are not ugly, not at all. You are very pretty, actually.”

Arya feels herself grow uncomfortable under Sansa’s earnest eyes, and she shifts in her place.

“We were children,” she shrugs, “and it doesn’t matter now. Being ugly is not the worst that can happen to a girl.”

“No,” Sansa concedes, “but even still, you’re pretty. And Gendry likes you fine as you are. He liked you before you grew a tail, and he’ll like you even when you’re grey and wrinkled.”

Arya hums. She doesn’t know what to answer to that, but her chest feels warm with her sister’s words.

“I like that we’re friends now,” she offers, and Sansa smiles wide.

“Yes, me too. I like it a lot.”

Sansa stands from the couch and comes to kiss her forehead, and Arya wants to say something else, anything, but Sansa pats her head and leaves the room.

“Ask him out,” she says before disappearing, and Arya thinks that’s sound advice, so she does.

* * *

 

Cella’s gone on a date, and Arya’s gone on a date, and Sansa would very much like to be gone on a date, too, except she’s in the middle of a fight with her not-girlfriend-but-soon-she-hopes. She wants to call her, but she can’t because Marg is kind of right: she _is_ hiding something from her, and no matter how legit her secret, Marg is bound to feel hurt by the secrecy. Sansa feels terrible about it —about the lie, and the fight, and the water turning to ice and scaring her. And if anyone were to ask, she’d swear she’s not avoiding Marg, she’s just giving themselves time to cool after the argument… except she totally is avoiding her, and she’s sure Marg knows exactly what she’s doing.

She wants to tell her so badly, though. She’s good at pretending, but she knows she’s on the brink of a nervous breakdown. She’s liked (loved, _loved, loved, l o v e d_ ) Margaery for a couple of years now, they’ve been best friends since they met in college five years ago. She trusts her with her life, but it’s not only her life at stake here, Arya and Cella depend on her, too. And even though she knows Marg would have her back, and even though she knows Gendry already knows, she can’t bring herself to just look her in the eye and tell her. What if something goes terribly wrong?

Her phone pings with a new message.

 _I miss you. Let’s make up_.

She wants to tell her that they could spend the rest of their lives together, and she would never tire. She wants to tell her that she loves her, has loved her, in fact, for so long that she doesn’t remember when it all started. _You are my best friend, you are the love of my life_ , she wants to say. She wants to say _I’m a mermaid, and I love you, and you’re never getting rid of me. Ever_. There are a million things that could go wrong, and a million things that could go right. She knows Arya and Cella wouldn’t mind, but still, her hands shake while she texts her back, _be there in twenty_.

Gods, is she really doing this?

* * *

**VI: the loving and the trusting**

Myrcella is not nervous, not at all. It’s just that she’s had this exact dream a thousand times, and when she pinched herself under the table earlier she did not wake up. So she really is on a date with Robb freaking Stark. Her dream always ends the same way, though, with her mouth busy on his… Well, let’s just say it’s not PG.

Robb laughs at all her silly jokes, and she laughs at all his silly jokes, and when they share desert he lets her have more than half, like the gentleman he is.

“I don’t remember, though,” she says after swallowing a piece of coulant, “how we ended up making out. Do tell.”

Robb’s cheeks come alive in flames, and Myrcella smiles reassuringly. No need to be embarrassed when they’ve sucked each other’s face.

“You said it was your dream since you were twelve.”

“Oh, so you decided to make my dream come true, like a real-life Prince Charming?”

Robb nods, “Yes, that’s exactly it.”

“Liar.”

“Am not,” he protests, but he reddens even more, if possible, until his skin matches his hair, “although I did want to kiss you, too. Badly. For some time now. You’ve turned out really pretty, as I’m sure you know already.”

It is her turn to blush, but she does so much more graciously. Her complexion is kinder than his.

“Thank you. I never noticed, though, that you wanted to kiss me as much as I wanted to kiss you. Actually, I don’t think that’s possible. As I apparently overshared the other night, I’ve been wanting to kiss you ever since I laid eyes on you for the first time. That’s so embarrassing.”

“You were a cute kid, I thought it was flattering. Theon thought it was embarrassing but super funny. He’ll probably make fun of you for the rest of your life, once he finds out we’ve kissed.”

“I’m not scared of that dumbass. And you knowing all this time that I had a crush on you is mortifying.”

Robb shrugs and spoons a bit of vanilla ice cream before answering, “Well, you weren’t exactly subtle. And I’m not completely dumb, you know. Anyways, it’s a good thing we’re both adults, now. And that you cornered me with the intention to kiss me senseless the other day, otherwise I might’ve been too craven, still, to do it myself.”

“I did not!” she protests, but she can’t really remember if she did indeed corner him, so it comes out kind of shallow. Robb laughs and eats the ice cream, and she finishes the last of their dessert with a smile on her face, because she’s pretty sure Robb’s brave enough now to kiss her once he drops her at home. Or so she hopes.

He is brave enough to take her hand when they leave the restaurant and they start walking aimlessly around town, glad for each other’s company. Neither is quite ready yet to see the date end.

“I thought it’d be weirder to go on a date with you,” Robb admits after a while, “but I guess I stopped seeing you as just my sisters’ friend a while ago.”

“I thought you’d just pretend we never made out, to be honest.”

Robb bites his bottom lip, a nervous habit he shares with Arya, “Well, Theon triple dog dared me to ask you out,” he mumbles, and Myrcella can’t stop the giggle that escapes her, “he thinks I’m such a coward for not asking you out earlier; and he thinks I’m a creep for going to college parties just to stare at you longingly from afar, which I concede, is kinda yucky.”

Myrcella nods, “And pathetic, too.”

Robb punches her lightly on the shoulder and she laughs, “It’s ok,” she adds, “Arya and I used to sneak into your college parties when we were in high school so I could ogle you to my heart’s content. It was heartbreaking when you decided to move to Oldtown, I must admit. I stared out the window like the dramatic teenager I was for a whole afternoon.”

“Wow, an afternoon, you must have really loved me, then! What took you away from the window?”

“Dinner. Mom had made lasagna, it was delicious.”

Robb laughs and no one’s looked more handsome than him in this exact moment.

“Glad to know lasagna can cure your broken heart.”

Myrcella shrugs, “What can I say, my love for you was true and deep, but my mom’s lasagna is on another level.”

A fat drop of water hits her nose and she looks at the sky, where the clouds are rolling. Robb begins to say something, but Myrcella isn’t paying attention.

“Shit,” she curses, and drops Robb’s hand, looking wildly around her. He cannot see her, must not see her.

“We should go back to the car,” Robb says, and he turns around. Myrcella feels like shit for what she’s about to do, but she’s got no choice, so she turns in the other direction and dives into the alley, hoping Robb won’t notice she’s gone. She’s got less than ten seconds before her legs fail her, and she hides behind a dumpster. This is not how she envisioned her date going this morning, but life always has other plans for her.

“Myrcella, what the fuck?” she hears Robb’s voice just as her legs turn into a coral pink tail. It matches her nail polish, she realizes, as the panic creeps up her throat.

“I saw you come in here,” Robb continues, and she can hear him edging closer, “you ok?”

She keeps very quiet, in the hopes that he’ll turn around and leave her be, but she is not that lucky. When he sees her, his eyes go wide and his mouth hangs open. Gendry’s exact reaction.

She knows how she must look, pathetic as a wet dog, with her golden hair stuck to her face and her hands dirty from crouching on the floor. But she also knows that he doesn’t see that, he only sees the tail curling on the floor, creeping up her belly to her hips and her pants gone, even if her crop top and her denim jacket remain in place.

“You weren’t supposed to find out,” she says in a small voice, “I promised Sansa and Arya no one would find out.”

She doesn’t mean to cry, but the fat tears just fall down her cheeks without her consent. She’s a mermaid, stranded in the middle of the city, with nothing to cover her and no place to hide except a dumpster. Robb looks half dazed when he crouches beside her and pushes the wet hair off her face.

“Are you ok?” he repeats, and she nods.

“No one can know, Robb. Promise me.”

“I promise.”

His voice is firm when he says it, and Myrcella trusts him. He is honorable, this boy of hers, he has always been honorable. He takes off his coat and hands it to her, and Myrcella does her best to cover the tail as he picks her up bridal style. For a moment she wishes someone would blast Whitney Houston for them, it would be fitting, she thinks. But Robb’s reassuring smile distracts her from all thoughts, and she can only focus on her breathing for the rest of the way to the car.

She is so _thanking_ him profusely for his consideration and his help.

It’s a miracle no one pays them any mind. That’s why she loves living in a city, people just don’t give a crap about you. When Robb manages to get her into the car comfortably (a very difficult task since her tail is very hard to work with and it is, well, kind of big), Myrcella finally exhales a sigh of relief.

Robb gets into the driver’s side and turns the heating on.

“You’re shaking,” he says and he turns the vents towards her, no matter that he’s as wet as she is. Her breath catches a little bit on her throat when he rests his hand on her cheek, “And freezing, too,” he adds.

“It might be the cold, but it might also be the nerves,” she laughs. Robb smiles at her and runs his thumbs on her cheeks.

 _Oh, so he is brave enough after all_ , is the last thing she thinks before his lips are on hers. Then she’s far too busy to think at all.

* * *

“This is a date,” is the first thing she tells him because Arya Stark is many things, but a wimp isn’t one of them. She is a champion, a winner, and she’s not scared of a bullheaded boy. Not at all.

Gendry chokes on his spit and turns all red, but he nods nonetheless. Arya nods, too, because she doesn’t know what else to do, and they get inside the ice cream parlor.

“Get us a seat,” she orders, “I’ll get yours.”

She watches him go towards the back and snatch a clean table by a window. He’s used to her bossing him around, so she isn’t worried about him taking offense. He’s a nice bull. She orders the ice cream, vanilla and cookie dough in a cup for him, cause he’s kinda boring like that; custard and rum in a cone for her, cause not only is she adventurous like that, she also wants to see him sweat as she licks away.

He doesn’t sweat though, which is downright offensive. She made sure to use her tongue and everything; not in a disgusting crude way, mind you, she’s still somewhat classy, but she knows she was suggestive enough for him to break a bit of a sweat. She didn’t think Gendry would be such a tough cookie. She shouldn’t have trusted Sansa’s judgment.

Gendry’s lack of response to her giving her ice cream a subtle b.j. has her… nervous. She wouldn’t normally admit to it, but dating is not something she’s done before. Making out with some random dude in the back seat of Sansa’s car? Yes. Going to prom with some unsuspecting useless boy who’d worked up the courage to ask her? Yes. But only because her mother had asked her nicely, and Arya was quite weak to her mother’s pleading eyes; otherwise she would have stayed home, playing videogames with Hot Pie and skyping with Gendry, instead of letting Ned Dayne feel her up under her sparkly skirt. But dating? No, not really. She wouldn’t call her prom night with Edric a date. She wouldn’t call her prom night anything other than what it really was: a mess.

So there she is, nervous out of her mind. And Gendry is nervous, too, she can tell because he keeps stammering over his words, and he never does that. Not with her.

“What movie do you want to watch?” he asks, once they’re both done with their ice cream and the conversation won’t flow. They’ve never had this problem before. Not even when they first met, back when she was far too little to be playing _Call of Duty_ and he was far too angry for his young age. They’d bonded (and so what if she’d had a crush back then, too? He’s always been fit, and she’s always had taste), and he’d taken care of her when Robb had been studying abroad for a year and Jon away to the King Torrhen Military Academy. Not that she needed caring for, of course, but he’d taken care of her anyways, mussing her hair like Jon did. They’ve been friends since forever, and they ought to be better at this than they actually seem to be. It’s her fault, for taking advice from Sansa. _I’m sure Sansa doesn’t have any problems when chatting up boys_ , she thinks.

“Whatever horror movie is playing right now is fine by me,” she answers.

Whatever horror movie is playing right now turns out to be about zombies invading Westeros, starting from the North. The Wall crumbles and Last Hearth is the first to fall. Arya watches in amusement as some Northman with a terrible accent tries to save his wife, all the while very much aware that she purposely asked Gendry to share a bucket of popcorn, and that every time they reach for the popcorn at the same time, their fingers brush in the most enticing way.

There’s a fantastic shot of Winterfell from above and she smacks Gendry in the chest in excitement. Then there’s the entrance, and the stables, and the great oaken doors that lead to the inside of the castle. She’d grown up inside those walls, running along those corridors with her brothers and her cousin Jon and sometimes her sister, and she’d seen her fair share of camera crews come to film in her family’s sprawling state.

“Rich girl,” Gendry whispers in her ear, and she feels her cheeks warm up at how close he is. She can feel his breath on her skin.

A shiver runs downs her back and she turns towards him, her lips a breath away from his.

“Don’t you like me just the way I am?” she asks. She’s still clutching his t-shirt from when she hit him in the chest, even if she hadn’t realized she was doing it until now. Now it’s the only thing she can think about: the play of muscle underneath her hand. She can’t really see him in the dark, but she knows he’s smirking, far too smug as he’s prone to when he thinks he’s got the upper hand on her. Not that he’s got the upper hand too often.  

A flash from the screen illuminates his face and his smirk turns into the pained look that means he's thinking. He takes her hand, the one clutching his t-shirt, in his. Then he links their fingers together and rests their hands on top of her thigh, where her shorts don’t cover her skin, and she’s sure she will melt right then and there. He’s got his _hand_ on her _thigh_.

 She feels warm in places she didn’t know she could feel warm. And if he doesn’t kiss her right now she might have a stroke, she thinks. She’s about to turn her head and snog him senseless, no questions asked, but a kid shouts, “The fucking coke is boiling!”, and the whole cinema falls into a panic as they confirm that their drinks are, in fact, boiling. Arya can’t face the humiliation of checking if her coke is boiling, too. She knows it is, she feels it in her bones, in the warmth creeping up her fingertips. She’s done this. And Gendry knows it’s her fault, and he knows it’s because she was nervous. She’s supposed to be better than this.

But Gendry laughs, the tension in his shoulders finally dissipating, and, grabbing her by the neck, he sticks his tongue so far up her throat she’s pretty sure she comes a little in her pants without meaning too.

The movie keeps playing, even if the theatre is half empty, but she wouldn’t be able to say how it ends even if her life was at stake. She’s sure someone dies. Her, probably. Of pleasure. It wouldn’t be such a bad way to go.

* * *

Margaery’s room looks like something out of Versailles. Twelve-year-old Sansa would have killed half her family for a room like this; twenty-three-year-old Sansa wouldn’t actually kill half her family, but perhaps she’d hurt them a little bit. It is a very beautiful room after all.

“So… you’re a mermaid?” Margaery asks, her voice laced with apprehension. “You’re  _the_  mermaid?”

Sansa wishes she could just disappear into the canopy bed and its many pillows, but Margaery is looking intently at her, so she is forced to meet her eyes. Nothing ever good comes out of looking straight into her doe-eyes. Sansa feels herself shrink. Not that she finds Margaery terrifying, it’s just that she feels guilty enough to crumble underneath her disbelieving eyes.

“I am,” she says, focusing on her own reflection behind Margaery’s tall figure; the vanity faces the bed, a tall thing made of solid wood and gold, an heirloom gifted to the Tyrells more than a hundred years ago by some Targaryen princess or other. Margaery’s grandmother had the looking glass replaced with a mirror and gifted it to Margaery when she got her first period. Sansa’s never heard of a more pretentious and dramatic story, but that’s the Tyrells in a nutshell: dramatic and pretentious.

“Have you been snorting coke?” Marg asks and Sansa would feel offended, but she understands completely —she would not believe herself either.

“It was Arya you saw that time you were sailing. We took a bath in some weird lagoon under a blue moon and came out as mermaids. Every time we come into contact with water, we turn into mermaids. It’s annoying, but we’re learning to live with it. And we got some pretty cool powers to go with it,” she adds. “It was my fault, by the way. I was the one who froze your cup of water, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to, I swear. I didn’t even know I could do that.”

Margaery paces back and forth before her. She’s got her arms crossed under her chest and they push her cleavage upward. It’s not the time to be noticing her perhaps-not-soon-girlfriend-since-they’re-in-the-middle-of-a-crisis’ boobs, but Sansa can’t really help it; it’s hard not to notice Margaery when she towers over her. She shouldn’t have sat on the bed, she’s not used to looking up at her and it unnerves her.

“Sansa, you’re not making any sense. Are you making fun of me? I know I didn’t actually see a mermaid, I just said it looked like one. I’m not an idiot.”

Sansa sighs. Arya had it so much easier, all she had to do was sleep in a bathtub and Gendry did the rest. She gets up, then, takes Margaery by the hand and drags her to the bathroom, where a giant tub presides over the room. She undresses quickly, leaving her clothes on the floor, and hops into the tub, bracing herself for what she’s about to do. She fills the tub with warm water and lays back, waiting the rigorous ten seconds it takes her to turn into a mermaid.

“Sansa, what in the seven hells do you think—”

The transformation shuts her right up. Sansa raises both eyebrows since she hasn’t got Margaery’s or Arya’s ability to raise just one. Not that she hasn’t tried, and tried, and tried.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you before,” she starts before Margaery can have enough time to process what’s before her in case she decides to run for it, “but Arya, Myrcella, and I thought it would be best not to tell anyone. I mean, it’s not something we could just share… I wanted to tell you, though, I really did. I’m sorry for keeping it a secret, you know I love you, don’t you?”

Margaery gulps, “I wasn’t expecting a love confession on top of _this_.”

That was a stupid thing she did back there, she knows, but Marg brings out the dumb bitch in her.

“Well, I do love you. Deal with it. And I want you to be my girlfriend, you’ll have to deal with that, too.”

Marg’s eyes go soft, so Sansa knows the fight is finished.

“I love you, too. But I thought it was pretty obvious. And I understand your reasons for not telling me. But, you know…”

“What?” Sansa asks, nervous. It never bodes well for her when Marg starts thinking too much.

Marg pops the first few buttons of her blouse open.

“I’ve never fucked a mermaid. Care to do your new girlfriend a favor?”

Sansa can only nod as Margaery shimmies out of her clothing.

* * *

**VII: the epilogue**

“Turns out none of us can keep a fucking secret,” Arya says as Sansa tops their wine glasses. Myrcella raises her glass to that, and both sisters follow her lead.

They can hear Robb and Gendry talking in the kitchen, pretending not to know what they’ve both been doing with each other’s sisters behind their backs. Myrcella thinks it’s hilarious, but only because Arya’s been suffering the worst of it. Gendry is not too overly protective, and other than telling Robb to keep it PG in front of him, he’s been doing fine with the whole affair. Robb, on the other hand, went ballistic when he found Gendry in Arya’s room, shirtless and with a hickey the size of an apple on his chest.

Sansa shrugs, “We just have to promise not to tell anyone else.”

Arya laughs, and the author is inclined to agree with her.

“Sansa, darling, is there anyone else special enough in your life that you’d feel the need to tell?”

Margaery sits beside Sansa and takes a sip of her wine. She sounds like a spoiled princess, Arya thinks, but she’s probably the funniest person in the house right now (not counting herself, of course), so she makes herself comfortable to enjoy the show. Arya _loves_ Margaery, and she’s looking forward to her parents meeting her. It will be hilarious, she’s sure. She’s not looking forward to telling her parents about Gendry, though, but that’s a problem for her future self.

“Well, I was thinking about sharing the secret with your cousin Elinor,” Sansa says, and it looks like she might say something else, but Margaery punches her lightly on the shoulder and she dissolves into giggles.

When she looks around her, Sansa knows that even if the secret is out, they’re safe. These are people they can trust. Myrcella and Arya must be thinking the same thing because they meet her gaze and they both smile at her in the exact same way —like they’ve got a secret to share with her.

So yeah, none of them could keep the secret. So what? Life is meant to be shared.


End file.
